Primo
by Crimson Cupcake
Summary: The bloodstained history of the Vongola Famiglia stretches back hundreds of years, but that was not what the original founders had intended. It started off as no more than a desire to protect their small country town; seven young men against the world. This is the story of the first Vongola Boss: a young idealistic man named Giotto, and his hope of creating a world without fear.
1. Uno - The Right Place

_Hello everyone! :)_

_So originally I wanted to read a brilliantly-written fic about the formation of the Vongola... before realising that no such fic existed, at least to my knowledge. So instead I have decided to write one (sans the brilliantly-written part, but I digress). So obviously this is a KHR fic about the formation of the Vongola, in the era of the Vongola Primo (Giotto). It will end up encompassing all his Guardians and Simon Cozarto, though it is, for its part, Giotto and G-centric._

_There will be no romance or pairings (except Daemon and Elena), very little angst (hopefully) and minimum OCs (unless the story calls for it, but even so, no Mary Sues-I can guarantee that). It'll just be a good old-fashioned action-packed family bonding adventure fic, which is exactly the sort of stuff I was looking for._

_I wrote this for Camp NaNoWriMo July 2014, and though it isn't finished yet, I have a good 50,000 words worth, so I can guarantee that I will update to the end. I hope for regular-ish updates once a week, because at the moment I have a raw manuscript, and I need to edit. _

_Thanks for reading this far, I won't hinder you any further._ _I hope you enjoy :)_

* * *

The first time Giotto saw the boy, his fiery red hair was a like a torch amidst the green leaves. Halfway up the tree, the boy was balancing on the thinnest of branches, using the natural bend of the branches to spring up, almost flying from one branch to another. Up he shot like a bullet, the flame that marked his head swimming in and out between the leaves, sometimes disappearing from sight, but almost always flaring up after a few seconds.

Standing on the ground with his neck craned up, Giotto could not help but marvel at this boy. He was truly extraordinary, able to climb to such heights and balance so precariously with no fear to the world. And he could not have been more than eight years old—indeed about as old as Giotto himself was.

The redhead was almost at the top when something caught Giotto's eye, and his heart skipped a beat. The branch the boy was standing on was starting to bend unnaturally; he could see cracks forming near the base of the branch.

"Look out!" he shouted.

The boy looked down at the voice, and Giotto saw his eyes widen. As the branch snapped in half, he lunged forward and grabbed onto another, much sturdier, branch. Giotto breathed a sigh of relief as the boy hung in midair, his fingers a death-grip around the branch. There was nothing but that to stop him from falling.

"Thanks for that!" he called down.

"No problem," Giotto replied. "You're a really good climber!"

Even from his distance, he could see the redhead grin—his eyes lit up, his teeth bared. "Gee," he said.

"What?"

"That's my name! G.!"

Giotto tilted his head to one side in confusion. The letter G? Or Gee? Was it perhaps short from something, or a common name in another country? Giotto had never been out of Italy, and he didn't know. But nevertheless, he decided he didn't want to sound foolish, so he looked up and yelled, "I'm Giotto!"

The boy—G.—nodded in acknowledgement. "Can you climb?"

"I might die!"

"That's the fun of it!" Still grinning, G. let go of his branch and plunged straight down—much to Giotto's horror—but caught himself just before he reached the ground. Finally, the redhead landed with both feet firmly planted, and brushed himself off. "So if you can't climb, what can you do?"

"Uh ... I can ... I can..." He paused, internally cursing himself for being unable to think of anything. "I can paint," he said at last. It was actually a lie—he couldn't paint, or at least, nobody had ever liked his paintings. But he couldn't stay silent!

But still ... painting ... what a stupid thing to say.

"Cool," said G., his eyes lighting up. "My papa's a painter. He goes all around the world to promote them."

Giotto sweatdropped. Now there was no way he could make himself seem great, since G.'s papa was a _professional_.

"I haven't seen you around here before," G. continued, oblivious to Giotto's embarrassment. "Are you new?"

The boy nodded. "We've just moved here from Venezia."

G.'s eyes widened and his mouth dropped open, and for a moment he looked like a puppy who had just spotted his favourite toy. "Venice! Why did you choose a place like Bovegno over _Venezia_?"

"Papa says he wants a quieter life. It's always so loud in Venezia."

G. grinned, but it was more of an apologetic expression than an amused one. "You've come to the right place, Giotto. Nothing ever happens here."

-vongola-

When the holidays finished and the start of school rolled around in September, Giotto set off with his new friend—indeed, thus far, his only friend—on their hour-long walk to school in the neighbouring town of Trevi. Neither of their parents could afford a carriage to send them to school, but G. assured his friend that it was _much_ more fun walking.

Giotto could soon see why. With the young sun warming up the day, and with the cool breeze of autumn tickling the back of his neck, it was a lovely sensation to walk, and what better company than with a friend?

"Did you used to walk to school by yourself?" Giotto asked absent-mindedly, brushing his blond hair out of his eyes.

G. shrugged. "Yeah."

Giotto couldn't think of any other reply, so he said, "Oh."

"But walking alone is great, you know—oh, _ciao_ Signora Addario! Garden's looking good, huh?"

They had passed an old lady watering her garden, bent over by the years of age laden upon her. She looked up at G.'s greeting, and her lined face lit up into a smile. "Hello G., nice to see you again," she said. Then, noticing Giotto, she added, "And who's your friend?"

"My name's Giotto, signora."

Signora Addario smiled at him. "Been here long, son?"

Giotto's eyes widened in surprise. How had she known he wasn't from around these parts—

"Accent," G. muttered out of the corner of his mouth, as if reading his mind.

"Oh," said Giotto, in response to both of them. "Only a few weeks, signora."

"Enjoying it?"

"Oh—oh yeah, it's a beautiful place," Giotto said earnestly, and he believed it. The sun on his back, his friend by his side, what was there not to love?

"I'm glad you like it," the woman said. "My son didn't stay long, you know. Wanted to get out as soon as possible. But ... ah, well, I suppose you have school, and I don't want to make you late. Come by if you want a tale or two, though, won't you?"

"Oh yes, definitely," said Giotto, and with a wave of goodbye, the two of them set off again.

On their way they passed several other people who G. seemed to know, all of whom waved enthusiastically when he came over to greet them. "You're popular, aren't you?" Giotto smiled, when they moved on from the seventh person they met—a young boy taking his dog for a walk.

G. only laughed. "You're not used to small places, Giotto, so you don't get it. But round here, everyone know everyone, and that's how it is. I'm not a friendly person—" he made a face "—by any means! It's them who are friendly towards me, and—hey!" G.'s eyes suddenly lit up, and Giotto immediately knew why. They had come to the top of a great hill, lush and green, shining in the sun. The road they were following curved away into a copse of trees, leaving the hill bare for—

"I'll race you down!" G. declared, and before Giotto had even thrown off his bag, the redhead had already thrown himself sideways down the hill. Giotto followed suit, and for the next thirty seconds he saw nothing except blurs of blue and green, his body gathering speed as it rolled down the hill, the world racing around, blurry and dizzy. His heart raced with adrenaline, blood pumping, shouts of laughter bursting from his mouth. At last he felt his movement slow, felt the ground beneath him flatten out, and at last slowly came to a stop.

"Beat ya!" he heard G. yell triumphantly somewhere beside him, and Giotto could not help but flash a grin.

"Well I tried," he said, groggily getting to his feet. "But come on, we have to head to school."

After that was a long hard climb to the top of the hill again to retrieve their bags, before setting off again. "That was fun," Giotto said breathlessly, as he swung his bag over his shoulder.

"Yeah," G. said, grinning. "I've never raced anyone down there before."

Giotto's smile faltered. "Never?"

"Yeah, never. You're the first. Which makes you like my best friend or something."

Giotto laughed. "Well if it makes you feel better, you're my only friend right now."

G. snorted. "You'll have loads once we get to school. You'll see. Everyone will love you!"

"Hope you're right," Giotto sighed, "I really do."

-vongola-

He and G. were put in the same class but on different tables, and it did not take long for Giotto to acquaint himself with the other five on his table, so by the time lunch rolled around, he had five other friends already. There were three boys and two girls, all of them with such bright smiles that would have melted Giotto into a puddle, if he had been made of butter. At lunch, the girls invited him to play hopscotch with a larger group of friends, and a boy invited him for a game of soccer. The two other boys pulled out a pack of cards and asked Giotto to play Mafia with them.

The blond declined them all in the politest way possible, and made his own way outside. The beautiful weather had continued on—there was barely a wisp of cloud in the sky—and he could see kids playing soccer on the oval. The girls in his class had started setting up hopscotch, and everyone else was settling down, as far as he could see. Everyone except...

After a few seconds of confused gazing, Giotto found him, and wondered how he could miss the flaming red hair, sticking out of a large, hardcover book. G. was sitting on a bench near the corner of the playground, and Giotto wasted no time in crossing the space and sitting down next to his friend.

"_Ciao_, G.!"

G. looked up, surprise plastered all over his face. "Giotto, what are you doing?"

"Eating lunch with you, what—"

"You don't want to do that! Come on, go play soccer with Panfilo and the others, I know you were invited, and they're really popular."

"Eh, I'm not that great at sport."

"Alright fine, at least go join Vico's group and play Mafia. It's really fun. I was a mafioso once, and managed to kill everyone else. It was the best!"

Giotto fixed his friend with a wide-eyed look of confusion. "Why can't I sit with you, G.?"

G. put aside his book fully, and frowned. "Why would you want to?"

"Well..." Giotto frowned too. "Because you're my friend!" It was just that simple. Why did G. suddenly hate him?

G. shrugged. "Well now you have more friends. You have other people, better people. You don't have to stick around me anymore."

"But I want to!" Giotto said, stomping his foot a little childishly, but he didn't care. He wanted to sit with his only friend—No, Giotto correct himself. His best friend. G.. "Why can't I?"

"Because ... because you're a nice person, Giotto. You're a great friend, and you deserve to be with the cool kids over there. You don't wanna be seen hanging around me."

"But you are cool," Giotto protested.

G. suddenly had a very strange look on his face. "You ... really believe that?" he asked, slowly.

"Yeah! Of course!" He smiled—a smile that lit up his whole face, and suddenly his blond hair was like a beacon of light, shimmering across the ocean.

Slowly, hesitantly, G. also grinned. "Fine then, Giotto," said the boy, picking up his lunchbox. "Let's eat together."

* * *

_That's all for_ _this debut chapter :) If you could review please, it would make my day. Thanks!_


	2. Due - Tendrils of Flame

_Hello, and welcome to Chapter 2 of Primo :) Thanks for the follows, but I'd love some more reviews!_

_Last week I forgot to mention that this fic is inspired by the fanfics of Kitsune Freak, especially _Clams Much?_ and _To Reach Across Time. _Her interpretation of the First Gen are hilarious and brilliant in every way, and I'll be borrowing off some of her elements in my characterisation of them. Oh also, there's no longer a dot after G's name because Microsoft Word's automatic formatting annoys me. If that bothers anyone, sorry, but too bad._

_To reply to the anon KhrforeverD: as I mentioned in my A/N last chapter, Cozarto is coming, but not right now. If you recall, by the time Giotto met Cozarto, he and G were already good friends. So it would make sense to start with his friendship with G and work from there, no? :)_

_That's all from me this week. Hope you enjoy reading :)_

* * *

"I don't get it," Giotto said, "I really don't."

He had been sitting at his desk for the last two hours now, trying to solve an algebraic equation which had become ridiculously complex, and though he tried every technique he knew, he ended up going around in circles. There were pieces of paper lying everywhere: on the table, crumpled on the floor, even piles on his bed. Textbooks were open at his feet, some leftover pasta from lunch was balancing precariously on top of a thick book of formulae. And Giotto was in the middle of it all, clutching his head in frustration, watching the numbers spin round and round on his page.

"Done!" G proclaimed triumphantly, at the exact same moment, throwing down his pen with vicious delight. "That was easy!" He was lying on his stomach, on the floor amidst the papers—in fact using some of them as a makeshift cushion.

"You're done with the first page already?" Giotto groaned. Despondently, he looked over at his best friend's work, and realised that G had not only finished the first page. He'd finished the whole chapter! "What," the blond gasped, "how did you even finish so quickly?" He himself was still stuck on the fifth question.

"Oh..." Colour rose to G's cheeks, and he quickly looked back down at his work. "Oh shit, it's cause I got everything wrong..."

Giotto frowned in disapproval. "Don't swear, G."

"You sound like my mama, you know. Look, I screwed up the whole of this page ... so much for it being easy, huh?"

"Are you sure? Let me check." Before G could react, Giotto snatched away his maths book, and flicked to the answers in his own textbook. "Wait, G, what are you talking about, this is all right!"

"N-No it isn't!" G stuttered, and grabbed his own book back again. "You're ... you're looking at the wrong section."

"No, I'm pretty sure—"

"Drop it, okay Giotto? It's wrong, so let's leave it at that. Come on, after I correct these stupid questions, I'll see where you're stuck on."

Giotto shook his head, grinning, and turned back to his own work. G was so unbelievably stubborn sometimes, but he had to let it slide. His best friend was a genius—absolutely brilliant. One time he had looked over at G's work in an exam, to find that the boy had finished some time ago, and was now inventing a code with funny skull symbols. But Giotto was not surprised. He knew that the redhead could solve university level maths, and he was only fourteen years old. A high school level maths exam was nothing to him.

But at the moment, Giotto had to concentrate on his own work. Reluctantly, he looked back down at his own page, and at the funny maths symbols swirling around, and decided that he should perhaps start this question over. He tore out the page, scrunched it up, and threw it across the room into the recycle bin.

-vongola-

"What'd you get in the maths test, Giotto?" came the question suddenly. G's voice reverberated around the room—more like the cavern, since they were currently occupying the underground basement, where G's father worked. At the moment the man was on a cruise ship promoting his paintings for an auction, so G had decided to show his friend exactly what a _professional _painting studio looked like.

"Hm?" was Giotto's absent-minded response. He had been absolutely dazzled by the paintings in the room. There were swirling watercolours of meadows, oil paintings of a futuristic urban cityscape, copies of classical Greek sculptures, and even pencil sketches. There was a sketch of a portrait of a beautiful woman near the corner, half-painted, and Giotto came to inspect that now, looking at the daintiness of her hands and the delicacy in her expression.

G sighed. "The maths test. Yesterday. What'd you get?"

Giotto turned away from the half-finished painting, his good mood rapidly evaporating as the memories of his horrible exam result rushed to his mind. "Bottom of the class," he mumbled dejectedly.

"Oh really?" said G, sounding strangely pleased with himself. "So you saved me then!"

"Huh?" said Giotto intelligently.

G held up a fist towards him. "Second last, thanks for cushioning me," he said, and Giotto, wide-eyed in surprise, accepted his fistbump.

"Really, G?" he exclaimed. "You? Second last?"

G grinned. "I didn't even study for it, remember? And it wasn't my best test. Come on Giotto, we can go study together. You've spent enough time looking through papa's stuff."

"But they're amazing!" said Giotto, still looking around for one final glimpse of the paintings, as he was dragged away by the redhead.

-vongola-

Giotto woke up to the sound of gunshots and screams.

Outside his window, the dark night had suddenly erupted into flame, a howling monster of heat and light and horror, eating everything in its wake. He ran to the window, horror-struck, and saw dark shapes below—men on horses, holding long weapons of metal in their arms, brandishing them about, yelling at the top of their lungs. Scream pierced the night as another house erupted into flame. Shadows of people ran out, terrified, and were pursued by horse hooves. Then they were overtaken, and the swung down, a scream pierced the night—

"Giotto!"

The door slammed open, and his mother rushed in. Her hair was still messed from sleep, her face pale, her eyes wide with fear. "Giotto you have to come with me, hurry, they'll be here any second! Come on!"

Giotto took his mother's hand without a word of protest, and he was pulled along, outside his room, down the stairs, and finally outside the house. "Run!" his mother whispered, guiding him towards an old bicycle that they barely used, for it was so rusted it threatened to break down any minute. It was his childhood bike, bought a few weeks after he had first met G almost six years ago. He looked at it uncertainly, then back at his mother.

The desperation was evident in her eyes. "Run Giotto, you have to get away from here."

"Not without you, mama."

"I'll be right behind you! Now go!"

Giotto knew what had to be done, though he did not like it at all. Still in his pyjamas, he jumped on the bike and kicked off, pedalling as fast as his legs would allow. The bike wobbled and groaned under his weight, but it held, and he flew off, down the road in front of the horsemen, three times as fast as the screaming crowds around him. He wove in and out of the crowd, making for the end of the road which marked the outermost houses of the village. G's house was here, and Giotto saw it come up now: standing cold and still, no light shining within.

He pedalled past it, praying that G and his family were safe, when suddenly the house caught fire.

A flaming arrow had started it, and in the time it took for Giotto to wheel his bike around and come to a halt, the flames were already burning steadily. "G!" he shouted, throwing his bike aside, about to rush into the burning building.

A strong pair of hands seized him and pulled him backwards heavily, so that Giotto landed hard on the dirt ground. He cried out in pain as his head slammed downwards, seeing bright stars burst into life before his eyes. He was dimly aware of the order, "Stay here, kid," uttered in a low, rough voice, before the man disappeared. Giotto sat up, rubbing his head and groaning, in time to see the man's silhouette disappear into the building.

His instincts were screaming at him to get up—either to rush into the building, or to jump back onto the bike and flee as quickly as he could, as far away from here as possible. But the man's voice carried a power that Giotto had never heard before. So despite everything he stayed where he was, watching the flames latch onto the timbers of G's house, climbing ever higher. The crowd was thinning out now, people scattering into the forests surrounding them as the main host of the attackers advanced forward in the distance. Giotto couldn't see his parents in the crowd, but he hoped they had found somewhere safe, that they were not caught in the crossfire behind him.

_Let them be safe... Please let them be safe..._

A silhouette appeared in the upper-storey window of G's house, and the window was lifted up with difficulty, since there seemed to be a bundle in his arms. The man stuck his head out and his eyes met with Giotto's. "Catch!" he roared, and tossed the bundle through the window.

Giotto saw a flash of flaming red hair, and ran forward. He caught G just in time, groaning as he fell under his weight, but nonetheless breaking his friend's fall. G was unconscious from smoke inhalation, his eyes closed, his head lolling to the side. Giotto left him there and looked up, just as the man reappeared at the window, with another bundle in his arms.

Something caught Giotto's eye, and his heart stopped. The flames had climbed through the timber supports underneath the man. "Look out!" he shouted, but his voice was lost in a roar as that section collapsed, leaving nothing but fire and rubble.

"No!" Giotto screamed, but it was futile. The rest of the house followed suit, crashing into ruin right before his eyes. At the same time the yells of horsemen drew nearer, horrifyingly loud in the night air. Without thinking, he turned back to G and began dragging his friend towards the nearest clump of bushes. "Why ... are you ... so heavy!" Giotto said between gritted teeth, as he finally reached the bush. He flattened himself to the ground, and made sure both of them were completely hidden from sight.

He didn't dare open his eyes in fear of what he would find, so he kept them tightly squeezed shut. He didn't dare move, in case the attackers spot the flicker of movement and came over to investigate. He simply pressed his nose against the ground, inhaling the earthly scent of dirt, trying to block out the yells and screams and ringing of metal and cackling destructive flames.

He lay there for what seemed like an age before the yelling and screaming gradually subsided. But even then Giotto did not dare get up. He lay paralysed for what felt like another hour before he heard low familiar voices, and cautiously lifted his head up to have a look.

The first thing Giotto saw was his bicycle, mangled and twisted out of shape by horse hooves or stampedes. Someone had put out all the fires, so he could see nothing but blackened shapes in the distance. But there were people mingling, and with a cry of relief Giotto recognised the silhouettes of his parents, his father with an arm around his mother, both of them quiet and solemn.

"Mama! Papa!"

He was out of the bushes before he knew it, sprinting towards them, throwing his arms around his mother. She took one look at him, and burst into tears. "Oh Giotto," she sobbed into his shoulder, "we thought you were dead! We saw the bike—"

"I had to, mama. I had to leave it behind." He let go, turned around, and pointed. "That's G's house there, and when I rode past—"

Giotto cut himself off, as he noticed a movement out of the corner of his eye. A shadow had just risen from the clump of bushes, and was making its way slowly towards him. Even under the dim moonlight, when all the other fires were put out, the boy's hair was still blatantly noticeable, like Rudolph's red nose in the dark.

G walked towards him slowly, every step causing him to wince with pain. "Giotto?" he said hesitantly. "What's going on?" A pause. "Where's mama?"

-vongola-

When the weak, watery daylight finally crept over the horizon, the survivors of the attack began to repair their village. Giotto was relieved to find that his house was amongst those still standing. The windows were broken and the door had been thrown off its hinges, but there was nothing really missing—their family was not a rich one, and they had few precious heirlooms.

School was not even an option, so for the next few days Giotto and his family set about repairing all the houses that could be fixed. Those whose houses were beyond repair were forced to say goodbye and move somewhere else, heaving what little luggage they had onto their backs or—if they were lucky—a pack pony. Giotto watched them go sadly, waving a hand in farewell. Amongst them were several of his classmates at school, along with some locals whom he had gotten to know over the years. He had always just assumed that their peaceful life would go on forever. Nothing ever happened here—wasn't that what G said? He had loved it just the way it was, but now everything was gone.

For G's part, he spent most of his time simply sitting on the ground, staring at the rubble of what once was his house. He did not cry, and Giotto admired his friend for that—no tear ever made its way past those hard brown eyes. He simply sat there, gazing, and when Giotto had time to spare, he too sat in front of the house in silence.

On the third day, some of the villages dug out the charred remains buried underneath the rubble—G's parents, and the man who had rushed in to save them. All three corpses were charred, with burns visible all over their bodies and faces. Giotto turned away, unable to handle the sight as bile rose to his mouth, but G stared at the corpses in stony silence. He stayed there, frozen, for such a long time that Giotto feared perhaps his friend had been so permanently traumatised that he would simply stand there for the rest of his life. But then, quite suddenly, the redhead turned and said, "Giotto, can I borrow some money?"

Giotto's eyes widened. "W-What?" he said, taken-aback. "S-sure, I guess?" He ran to his house, grabbed his whole box of savings hidden under his mattress, and sprinted back to G. "Here," he said, thrusting the box at him, "take as much as you want."

G took two hundred _lire (1)_, gave Giotto a grateful nod, and turned away without a word. He began to walk towards the edge of the village, and Giotto blinked at him in confusion. "G? Where are you going?" His friend ignored him, and Giotto stepped forward again. "G, what are you doing? W-Where are you ... why are you just ... G!"

But nothing Giotto said made the slightest difference. G did not even turn back. He simply trudged on, dark eyes colder than ice, leaving Giotto to stare helplessly at his retreating back.

-vongola-

G came back at dusk.

Giotto had been helping repairs on his neighbour's house, when he saw his friend's unmistakable red hair appear from behind the buildings. With a shout of delight, Giotto abandoned his work and rushed over. He had been so certain his friend was going to leave them all behind, and just walk until ... well, Giotto didn't know. But G was back and safe and that's all that mattered.

"G, you're back, what—Oh my _God_!"

Giotto skidded to a halt, his mouth hanging half-open, his eyes staring blatantly at G's face. "W-What did you _do_?"

G smirked. "Here's your change, Giotto," he said, and thrust a handful of coins into Giotto's limp hand.

"I ... I..." Giotto was lost for words.

G's face, once tanned and smooth, was on fire. Bright crimson flames climbed from the base of his neck, across the right side of his face, licking at his right eye and climbing above it. Even the slightest movement or change in lighting made the flames look as though they were moving, living creatures.

"You _tattooed_ your face? With _flames_?"

"Yeah," said G, and he smiled. But it was hesitant, and his eyes searched Giotto's for approval. "It looks good ... right?"

"It..." Giotto stared at his friend's face long and hard, his eyes tracing the movement of the tongues of flame until it disappeared behind G's fringe. "Actually, it looks really cool!"

G pumped his fist in the air, his smile splitting into a full grin. "I knew it! I knew it'd look badass!"

Giotto could not help but smile in spite of himself. "But, G ... why?"

G pointed down the road, towards the rubble that was once his own house. "The man back there," he said, "the one who saved me. I don't know who he is, and nobody can recognise him now that..." He hesitated, and shook his head. "Well, he had a nasty burn across the right side of his face. So I thought I'd get this. For him. Plus," he added with a grin, "it looks damn awesome!"

"That it does," Giotto agreed, and both of them laughed. For that one moment, all their troubles were forgotten. They were children again, laughing together under a clear blue sky.

* * *

_Lire (1) - Plural of lira, the Italian currency before the Euro. Assuming Giotto lived sometime in the early 19th century, __he would have used lire. According to Wikipedia (100% reliable, of course /cough), the lira was set equal to the franc in 1865, and it was only after that that massive inflation occurred. So I'm converting under the assumption that it's equal to the modern franc, which is set at about 1.11 US dollars. _

_So, that was my take on why/how G got his tattoo. I hope you liked it :) As I said last chapter, 90% of the story is already written up. I just need motivation to post... such as reviews. Reviews make me post faster, yes._

_Until next time, ciao!_


	3. Tre - The Slow Rebuilding

_Hi guys, welcome to Primo Chapter 3_

_So... I haven't updated for a while, partly because I've been busy, partly because I was pretty disappointed with the lack of reviews. :( You guys make me sad. But thank you, guest whose name I do not know. I guess as long as somebody is interested, I shall continue to post. :) With that said, please review! It would make me a much happier writer and make me post faster too._

_So this chapter I decided to name these villages because, trust me, in future chapters Giotto is going to visit a lot of places and it will be _very_ confusing without names. I'll probably go back and add some village names, tweak this and that... work in progress. _

_For now, enjoy!_

* * *

From that day on, G started living with Giotto's family, and his parents welcomed him like a second son.

The only possession that still remained from his past life was his father's paintings. The outlaws had burnt down the house, but not the basement, which was made of stone and had been carefully sealed off. Giotto and G cleared away the rubble, and dug through to the basement. Then, painting by painting, they excavated them all and moved them to Giotto's house, where his parents set out a special room for them.

"I'm never selling these paintings," G declared, as he looked around the room proudly. "Never. I don't care what happens to me, or how much other people offer for them. These paintings are never going anywhere."

Giotto nodded in agreement as he paced around the room, still admiring the paintings though the artist was dead. He could not help but reflect sadly that the portrait of the woman would never be finished.

"G," he said quietly.

"Yeah?"

"If the outlaws come again ... there's a good chance this house might burn down too. And if that happens ... your papa's paintings..."

G turned to him, his eyes hardened in anger. "The outlaws won't attack here again. I'm going to make sure of that."

"How are you going to do that, G?"

"I don't know!"

Giotto flinched at the harsh tone, and G's voice softened. "Sorry Giotto ... I didn't mean..."

"It's okay," Giotto said, and he smiled. "The first thing we need to do is to help everyone in our village. We have to raise money for them to rebuild their houses and continue on with life. A lot of these people have lost everything, and we have to help."

"How are we going to do that, Giotto?" G repeated.

Giotto was silent for a long moment, his eyes flickering across the room to look at each of the paintings in turn. "G..." he said at last, a note of hope in his voice.

"Yeah?"

"Do you remember how I said I could paint?"

-vongola-

For the first time in years, Giotto dug out a white canvas, picked up a paintbrush, and began to splatter streaks of paint across the blank slate. He didn't paint what was before his eyes—that scene of devastation was still too horrifying for him, and at any rate nobody would buy it. Instead, he drew inspiration from his memories: from the long walks to school with G, with the sun shining on his back and a green meadow before him.

When he had painted enough, the two of them carried the paintings out of the village, heading for the closest large town—Trevi. There, they set up a stall and held up a sign: _disaster relief, please give generously. _Though many people stopped to look, some of them complimenting Giotto on his work, there were very few who wanted to buy, and at the end of the day Giotto had only sold two very small paintings.

"Now we have to lug all this back?" G groaned at the end of the day, when the sun was already beginning to set, tinging the clouds pink and purple.

"Unless you want to spend the night here, yes," said Giotto with a small smile.

G sighed, but began packing up the paintings without further complaint. "You really think this is going to work, Giotto?" he asked, as they began the long walk back to their village of Bovegno. "We barely sold anything today."

"Give it time," said Giotto gently. "We aren't going to make enough money from only one day."

"It's stupid," G muttered, shaking his head in frustration. "It takes one day for everything to be destroyed, but rebuilding takes months. That's just ... ridiculous."

Giotto sighed, and lifted his head up to look at the sunset. "That's just how the world is, G. That's why we have to protect what we have."

-vongola-

Giotto and G came back every day for the next two months. Slowly and steadily, they became familiar faces to everyone who came to the town—the residents, the children who came for school, the adults who came for work, or even merchants just passing by. They talked with travellers who stayed at the inn, the realised that it was not only their own village which was being pillaged and plundered. The outlaws were attacking wherever they went, razing places to the ground and leaving a trail of bodies in their wake.

"We have to do something," G muttered, as they finished their lunch break inside the inn, and headed back out for another long afternoon of selling paintings. They had made considerable progress, and after two weeks Giotto's original stash of paintings had been completely sold, though on several occasions they were forced to lower their prices.

"We are doing something, G," Giotto replied with a smile. "It's horrible, what the outlaws are doing, but for now we have to focus on our own repairs. Come on, look." He pressed their bag of money from the day into G's hand, and the redhead weighed it.

"Pretty good," he said, voice resounding with approval. "So what do we do with all this?"

"Just wait and see," said Giotto, grinning.

-vongola-

"Ready?" G asked.

Giotto nodded, his eyes set. "Ready. Let's do it."

G handed Giotto the pouch, and the blond stepped out onto the street, and called a cheery greeting to the old man who was cleaning up the last of the rubble in the village. "Good morning, Signor Moretti! Fine day today, no? We haven't had a cloudless day in a while. Well I must be off, lots to do, you know. _Arrivederci_!"

Giotto walked off, whistling to himself. He had dropped a bag of coins while remarking on the weather. He knew that Moretti was one of the most hardworking people in the village, helping tirelessly day and night. And the man had also been hit hardest by the outlaws' attack. A kind deed would do him well.

"You are the dodgiest person ever," G hissed, as he met Giotto again by another path.

"What do you mean?" said Giotto, who was still whistling. He was very pleased with himself for pulling that off without anybody noticing. Finally they were helping people. Finally they were doing something!

G just shook his head in exasperation. "Well at least it worked. Moretti picked it up, I saw him. Come on, let's go conveniently drop some more cash for other people to pick up."

Giotto smiled and followed his best friend. G had scouted out the locations beforehand, and all Giotto had to do was to deliver. They ran through the streets, calling greetings to everyone they saw, and finally stopped at an intersection. G nodded towards a large, wealthy house, in pristine condition, untouched by the outlaws' attack.

"Erm, G?" said Giotto, looking at it uncertainly. "We're supposed to find people who _need _the money."

"I know that!" G snapped, rolling his eyes, as if nobody of his intelligence could possibly misunderstand their mission. "That there is the Romano House, and the Romanos have moved out of town for a while. Right now the caretaker Paolo's opening it up as a hospital for the wounded, but Paolo himself has been pretty badly affected. So when he comes out, just go have a chat and drop some money. Alright?"

"Got it."

The two of them hid in a nearby alleyway, taking turns to keep watch. At last, G hissed, "Giotto! Get up!" and the blond stood up, dusting himself, and grabbed his bag of money. "Look, that's him, he's coming out for a smoke. I'll meet you over by those trees," G whispered. "Now go!"

He gave Giotto a little push. The boy stumbled out from the alley, whistling as he walked as casually as he could manage. "Morning, Signor Paolo," he said with a smile that could melt the harshest ice. "How's the hospital going?"

"Oh, hello Giotto," said the man. He was in his early fifties, hairline receding and wrinkles lining his face, but still very much a picture of life. "It's been a bit hectic, the Romanos are coming back soon, so we have to relocate the last of the patients."

"Sounds like a hassle," said Giotto, wrinkling his nose. At the same time, he let the bag of money drop casually from his pocket. "Well, I'll let you get to it then, Signor Paolo." With a salute, he was on his way, his chest swelling with pride when he imagined Paolo's expression later, when the man found the sack of money.

He met G at their designated meeting place, hidden behind a copse of trees, and the redhead gave him a thumbs up.

"How was that?" Giotto asked, unable to stop himself from smiling broadly. "Less dodgy?"

"You're getting there," said G. "Look, he's found it, he's picking it up."

Giotto turned. He tried to hide behind a tree as best as he could, and stuck his head out to see what G was referring to. Paolo had indeed spotted the moneybag, and was smiling and shaking his head as he pocketed it.

"He knows it's us," Giotto murmured.

"Well of course he does," said G. "Not stupid, is he? But I think he's glad for it all the same."

Paolo finished his cigarette and walked back into the temporary hospital, closing the door behind him. Giotto was just about to head off when G pointed, and hissed "Look!"

Not for the first time, Giotto turned. A boy about their age, with short red hair burning even brighter than G's, even though he had a cap on, had walked past the hospital. As he did, something dropped out of his pocket, but the boy didn't notice. He simply kept walking, turned the corner, and disappeared from sight.

Giotto and G exchanged knowing glances, then both of them crept out of their hiding places and went to examine the scene. "It's a wallet," said Giotto, who had gotten there first and picked it up. He turned the brown, unremarkable wallet around in his hands, and then looked inside. "Woah, there's a bit of cash!"

"Understatement of the decade," G grumbled, looking at all the coins inside, threatening to spill out. "What are we gonna do with it?"

Giotto didn't answer, so G looked up and saw his friend's expression. "You're not serious," he said, meeting the blond's gaze. "You're not gonna return it to him? There's got to be more than a hundred _lire_ in here! Think about all the people we could help!"

"Exactly," said Giotto. "Think about how devastated the boy is going to be when he finds all this money missing. I can't steal like this, G. My conscience won't allow it. Come on, let's go."

He set off at a run, with G behind muttering something that suspiciously sounded like 'One day your conscience is going to ruin us all.' It didn't take him long to catch up with the boy—his hair was just too noticeable.

"Hey!" Giotto called, when they were close enough to be heard. "You there! You with the red hair!"

The boy turned, and Giotto smiled. "You dropped your wallet," he said, lifting it up. "Found it outside Paolo's hospital."_(1)_

"Huh?" said the boy. For the first time, Giotto had a proper look at his face. He was young, about the same age as them both, and his eyes had a bright glint that Giotto had rarely seen before.

Recognition swam into the boy's eyes as he saw the wallet, and his mouth quirked into a grin. "Ah ... that's too bad. I dropped it on purpose. I couldn't stand to watch Paolo and his family starve to death."

"I see," said Giotto, "I apologise for that. But there's no need to worry about Paolo's family. We dropped some money outside the hospital too."

Giotto saw the shock in the boy's eyes, quickly replaced by gratitude. The redhead laughed. "You too?"

"Yeah," said Giotto, and he could not help but smile. There were someone out there—someone like he and G—someone trying to help! They were not alone!

"I'm Cozarto Simon," said the boy. "I'm here visiting my aunt."

The name rang a bell in Giotto's memories. He remembered, dimly, that they were a family mentioned back when he was in Venezia. "I've heard of your family from my grandfather." But try as hard as he could, Giotto could not remember exactly _why_ their family was important. "Oh, this is my friend G," he said, gesturing behind him with his thumb, "and I'm Giotto." He offered a hand, which Cozarto took firmly.

"Do you live around here?" Cozarto asked. "I heard the outlaws attacked recently ... Have you been helping these people?"

"We just live in the next village. Bovegno."

He waited for some sign of recognition, but Cozarto shook his head. "Can't say I've heard of it. I'm new around here, sorry."

"It's really small," said Giotto, "so don't worry. G and I have been selling some paintings, and giving that money to whoever needs it most."

Cozarto laughed. "That was my idea too! Except not with paintings, I've just been taking some money from my allowance. Your way's better."

"Do you want to help us?" asked Giotto, smiling. "We can team up and help all these people."

"I'd love to," said Cozarto enthusiastically. "When do we start?"

"Right now!" said Giotto. He turned back to see what G thought of the whole affair, and his friend was nodding in agreement.

"Next house then?" G asked.

Giotto and Cozarto exchanged grins.

"You bet."

* * *

_(1) In the manga, Cozarto actually dropped his wallet in the person's basement(?), while Giotto and G delivered groceries instead of money. But that was too hard to choreograph, and also why would any of them be in the person's _house_ in the first place? So I stuck with my version of events. _

_Voila, the entrance of Cozarto! :) I know his name is sometimes written as Cozart, but that just doesn't sound Italian enough for me... Cozarto it is! A large chunk of the dialogue is taken straight from the manga-do you recognise it? _

_The village names are just randomly chosen._

_Anyway, please review, it would be totally awesome!_


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